The Chase
by ela-chan
Summary: [HIATUS] Wannabe sophistication. The Narrator loses her voice because of a poison, one planted by a dead father, a cold mother and an intense hatred. The mind can become a prison if one isn't careful.
1. isa

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?) _

_

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**Cat and Mouse: The Chase  
**By Ela-chan

_Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?_

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**Chapter One**

_Pinching and King Jackass_

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If tomorrow was Judgement Day instead of my dancing lessons, and I was standing at the front line with none of my pillows, and a tall guy with a gold halo thing over his head asked me what I did with my Life, I'd say 'Ask Mother'.

Well, of course, Saint Peter would probably scoff at me and say: 'I'm sorry; you're the Devil's spawn. Go to hell. Next.'

Bah. What do they know? Nothing. Yeah, that's right. A bunch of dunderheads, they are. No good people bundled up in blindingly white feathered costumes and such, possessing no intellectual capabilities and having the luxury of getting whatever it is they want, when they want it and how they want it. But still, they have no knowledge residing within their empty heads. Yep, it's true.

_I'm sorry; your IQ test came back negative. We recommend you re-do years Kindergarten and up. Thank you. _

Well, that applies mostly for Saint Peter, but God, well, he's another story, isn't he? He'd know a hell of a lot, wouldn't he? Yeah, I mean – with creating the world and all, the first man and woman, every animal and that. Knowing everything we're going to do, what we're thinking; he'd know a fair bit, I guess. Wouldn't he?

Yeah. Sure he would. But never Saint Peter. Nah. He'd send me to hell without a glance, he would. Not a moment to lose. Not a thought to it. He'll probably wave his little feathered quill in my face and push me off a cloud. Or whack me with his everlasting, glowing parchment and slap me around the head with his lifetime guaranteed slipper or something. Nasty wicked bugger, he is.

Anyway, I had a point somewhere in this.

Mother always nagged at me that talking to someone without a proper introduction was, and I quote, _'Insolent little heathen! Have you no shame?_', end quote. Yeah, she — Oh. The wrong thing came from my mouth again. Sigh, grumble, sigh. If you laugh, I will kill you.

Let me try again.

Mother always nags at me for talking to people without them knowing who I am. She'd pinch me under the arm; you know where it always hurts? Yeah, she knows that place. I'm forever doomed for the rest of my abnormal human life. She'd grab skin, pull and twist. Then I'd grind my teeth, force a friendly grin and introduce myself while she hissed '_Don't just stand there! Introduce yourself!_' It was always the same. Let Mother chat them up first, let her haul you out of your unnoticed, very comfortable seat by the fire, then let her talk about you with them, then be pinched and forced to say your name. It didn't help that we meet with new people practically every day, either. Yeah, it sucks. Most of the time, anyway.

Especially when that Potter kid and his oh-so-classy parents came by the mansion that day. God, I wanted to strangle him again. The lamp I used as a substitute to his neck finally snapped yesterday. I laughed. That would be him the next time he got on my nerves. In tiny little pieces of china, with a dead light bulb amidst its jagged pieces of elaborately painted rock.

Even though it's physically impossible for him to become those little pieces of clay, a girl can dream, can't she? Sure, she can. Sure she — wait. I'm making the mistake that started all this rambling. Gah. All those years Mother's nagged at me isn't doing its job. I'm conversing with someone who knows my name not. It's a different situation this time, though. No pain from Mother's pinches while you introduced yourself to someone who you've never met or even seen in your measly fifteen years you've existed. No pressure upon your fragile shoulders. No blah blah blah, yada yada yada from her immaculately scarlet lips.

Anyway, I'm Lily. Lillian to be exact. In my mother's opinion, Lillian J. was the filthiest and most disgraceful name _anyone_ could _ever_ have the misfortune to hear. That it was a shame to have it attached to the honourable name of Evans, that it was a pity to be related to the owner of that name, and the rest I'm not to be bothered to state.

And you know what?

I could just go up to her and hit her over the head with the excuse of her being a mindless bug right now. If she thinks my name's all dirty and woe-begotten or whatever she thinks, which, might I add, are all complete lies, then why did the woman let my father bestow upon their youngest daughter the name Lillian J.? My family is dysfunctional, I admit. My family is stupid and completely loony, yes. My family is a nuisance and there is many a time that I'd love to kick them around their shins and watch them hop around in pain to my amusement, that's true. But it's my mother who has the three of us rolling our eyes and grinding our teeth all the time.

In this sentence, 'us', possesses the definitive of my Father, my batty, her-face-is-inhuman-makeup sister and my abnormal self, of course. We're the semi-normal part of the family. Mother's the non-semi-normal division of this group of blood relations. She's the blabber, nagger, glarer, I-can-order-you-around-because-I-have-control-over-you-and-just-because mother Mother, the fussy cleaner, the _pincher_. She's the person who takes over your life when you receive your first phone call from a boy she doesn't know of. She's the mindless, or so I like to think, old lady who pinches you in various parts of your body to force you to do something.

She's a nightmare, but hey, she's my mother and I love her to death.

Anyway, I'll tell you about the day when James I'm-so-far-up-my-arse Potter came prancing into our house with his parents that perfect, crisp Winter's day. The 'perfect' part was shattered and kicked in the arse so many times that it ran away from Potter when he put the first step onto our perfect marble floor.

Doesn't seem fair to the rest of us, does it?

Hell no.

'Ah, Elizabeth,' breathed Mrs Potter herself, the selfish woman who bore that poor excuse for a son of hers for a whole nine months. I almost feel sorry for her. She was looking around with her delicate hand on the small of James's back, a look of awe on her face, but we all know fakery is as thick as iron.

'Your home looks simply _divine_. How ever do you do it?'

_She didn't, lady. _I_ did._

I was sitting at the dining table at the time, happily munching on a toffee apple and watching Mother soak the flattery up like yellow sponge. I could barf. But this was too good to pass up. There's bound to be some violence somewhere in the few hours the Potters would be staying for. I wouldn't miss this for the world.

With the wives talking contently on the sofa, their legs crossed and tea cups raised yet not being drank and the men laughing loudly about things I'd rather not know about, James was left to wander around to his pleasure and amusement. That was my cue to move as fast as I could to the nearest hiding place. But before I could lunge behind the refrigerator, James spotted me and made his way down, in my opinion, the longest dining table in the world.

I'll kill Petunia.

_Mrs. Dursley invited me for dinner the other day, Mother.__ It would be quite rude to decline, wouldn't you say so?_

Yep. She's definitely going to cross that line between the dead and alive. As soon as she comes home, I'll trip her over and disfigure her face with a poke. Insert endless sinister cackling here.

'Well, hello there, Lillian J,' came the suave voice of the Potter heir.

I _hate_ that tone. I _hate_ that name. I **_hate_** this guy.

Glaring at the elaborate design of the centre flower piece as to refrain from looking at him, I ground my teeth. If I did look at him, I guess I'd whack him around the head for even existing with what's left of my toffee apple; but this toffee apple's too good to waste on a gesture of violence on such a worthless worm.

'It's Lily,' I snapped, taking a bite out of the apple and chewing it bitterly. 'And if you call me Lillian J. ever again, I'll disfigure your face and everything else I can reach with a very blunt butter knife.'

He stared at me fully for a few moments after I threw that at him. It took a lot of moral fibre for me not to snort like man right there and then. If it wasn't for my very ladylike manners, I'd laugh outright and slap my knee and whatever.

'I – err …' he tried, putting a hand at the nape of his neck uncomfortably. He pulled out the chair closest to me and sat himself down. 'Well, _Lily_. How are you?'

If this guy would be as civil to me as he is now at Hogwarts, I'd actually think twice about throwing my goblet at him every time he popped that question. On second thought, if he changed his name, face, voice, attitude, style and everything else about him, I'd think twice about the answer I'd give him.

'I've been better,' I muttered, tucking a stray lock of my cursed red hair behind my ear. I so sorely wanted to add ''til you came along'. But the fact that he'd blab to Mother about it stopped me.

'Listen, Lily,' he said so suddenly that I choked on a small piece of sweet apple. 'Have you reconsidered your answer?'

No goblet for me to hurl. Damn it.

'Lillian, dearest,' cooed Mother from the distance. I saw her dainty hand wave at me to come to her. It was time to be pinched and forced to say your name to the Potters. And, I must say, the timing could not be more than perfect.

'Hold that thought,' I said to James, giving him a triumphant smile. I stood up to my full five foot ten height and smoothed back my tresses. I could feel James's eyes lingering on the lower part of my body as I walked towards Mother.

Bloody arse. And I do mean that literally.

'James, dear,' called Mrs Potter in same tone my mother used. I bit my tongue as James trotted to catch up with me, the same triumphant grin now on his face. How ironic. I refused to look at him.

'Yes, Mother?' I inquired politely, thankful that James was now beside his own mother. She stood and walked behind me, a forced yet perfect grin on her face. I closed my eyes as the pain of her pinch stung me. The same 'Introduce yourself like a lady, Lillian' plagued my ear.

'This is my youngest daughter,' she said as Mr. Potter put an arm around his wife and gave me a fond look. That was my cue.

'Lillian J. Evans, Mr. and Mrs. Potter,' I said, my voice trained, smooth and harmonious as I gave each adult a flawless curtsy and inclination of the head. As soon as this is over, I'm going to raid the refrigerator of everything that Mother fancies. Yoghurt, fruits, that funny looking camembert cheese with the green spots, and all those ungodly things she eats to keep her shape.

Psh, yeah, whatever.

'This is James,' came Mrs. Potter's sickly sweet voice. The voice of an upper-class woman. Damn that voice. I grimaced as she prodded James in the back, making him come closer to me. I took a voluntary step back and collided with Mother. I was trapped. Didn't these people know I know James from school? Didn't they know we know each other? Didn't they know I hate his very guts? Didn't they know I was hungry and wanting a hot pot of Spaghetti right now? Didn't they know I wanted to step on James's foot and make him hop around so I can laugh? Didn't they know I didn't want to curtsy and keep up the act so I can be in Mother's good books?

'We know each other,' came James's awkward quip, making a confused gesture with his finger by pointing at me then to his head then to a painting.

A painting? Yeah, the guy's bloody mental. That's the only thing I think that's decent about him. His oddity is in my good books. Everything else he possesses belongs in my waiting-to-be-killed-at-the-dead-of-night books.

'From school,' I added, nodding and rolling my lips around. I bit my bottom lip as I felt the pinch of Mother tighten.

'But that doesn't mean we can't properly introduce ourselves, does it?' I broke out hastily. Giving one of my perfect curtsies and inclinations, I felt the pinch loosen and I sighed inwardly. I don't know why I put up with this woman. I don't know why dad married her. I don't know why the hell I'm curtsying to the one guy I hate the most in the whole of Hogwarts. I don't know why I'm here and not out with my friends in Diagon Alley or something. I don't know why I'm still curtsying. But, hey, Mother said the longer you stay in the process of the curtsy, the politer you come out to be.

Whatever.

I straightened and gave Mrs. Potter a flattering grin. I inherited Mother's grin. A perfect, white gleam with my lips pouted flawlessly and blah blah blah. Mother's told me this. Why, you ask? It's an excuse to flatter herself. Duh.

'Well, now that the introductions have been made,' Mother said in an airy tone, 'I'll see to dinner.'

She set a twitching eye on Father. I almost snorted.

'Dear, will you set the table?' she said to him.

It wasn't a request. It was an order.

Father and I know that. Mother only raises the last tone of the last word to make it sound like a question. She only does that so she'll come out polite and well-mannered.

What a fruitcake.

I'm glad she let go of me, though. That pinch was a little worse off than I thought.

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**Read? Review, then! =)**


	2. dalawa

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?) _

_

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_

**Cat and Mouse: The Chase  
**By Ela-chan

_Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?_

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**Chapter Two**

_Dinner and Unique Ways_

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Now, to endure dinner. Where it's bound to last as long as two hours. Two hours of pointless talking, eating and top of the class champagne drinking. I don't mind so much the champagne drinking, but I know for sure that James is going to be sitting next to me. And, if he feels as sleazy as the look he's giving me right now, it's sure that he'll make a few passes on me. And, if he does, I'll be sure to have an extra fork on hand.

A girl needs a weapon to defend herself from rabid dogs wanting their feed and such. In this case, a weapon which will inflict maximum pain with the first stab on the jackass who won't take a bloody hint to save his life. But, only hypothetically speaking, of course.

As everyone made their way to the dining table, I tried my best to stay as far away from that Potter boy. His wanting-to-stick-by-my-side didn't help in the least. I decided to ignore him. So, I tried to busy myself by staring at the other people. And so, I did.

Every single person present had their own, let's say, _unique_, way of carrying themselves. Even though, at the back of their minds, they know no one would be observing their every move, they could not help but show off to a non-existent audience. Well, that's what I think, anyway.

For example, Mrs. Potter. She walks as if she were on a cat walk and her nose was always slightly upturned like there was something nasty under her nose every time she sniffed. Her delicate little fingers were always out or folded behind her back. And her eyes. Bloody things are so shifty, I swear.

Then there's Mr. Potter. Honestly, he walks a little bit like a pregnant penguin, really. And he always had one hand balled into a fist, resting on the left side of his chest. It was his quirk. And, probably, most people find it weird. I do, too, as a matter of act. But we don't talk about that.

Then there was the jack ass of the millennium himself.

I'm talking about Potter Junior, of course.

To tell the complete and raw truth, the guy walks straight-backed; like he owns everything and that the world awaits on his every order. His features were well defined, I admit. His body is well sculpted, I reluctantly agree. But it's disgusting to admit those things. I'm tired of everyone showering him with praise all the time at Hogwarts. Don't those Gryffindors know he's a pompous git? Don't those Hufflepuff girls know he's a shallow maggot? Don't they all know he's one of the worst men any girl could fall for?

I think not.

Everyone pulled themselves a grand seat, except the ladies, who had the men pull a chair out for them. I was just about to pull one out myself when a larger and much stronger hand got there first and pulled it out gently. Just right. I looked up and locked with hazel eyes. We, or rather _he_, stared for a few moments. I rolled my eyes and plopped myself onto the seat and crossed my legs. Does he think, with that one act of politeness, that he can win over my heart? Whatever to his face. Even if he rescued every endangered animal in the world, saved every human from starvation or ensured world peace, I wouldn't change my view of him. He's just a stupid dude always craving attention. If you ask me, he's got a bad case of A.D.D. – Attention Deprived Delinquent. I don't know the true meaning but hey, my definition works just as well.

'Dinner is ready,' came my mother's soft voice. All at once, butlers of every age - there were at least seven of them - came out from behind the grand doors of the kitchen.

Can you believe I've only been in my own kitchen three times? Once, because I hid in there from one of the perverted sons of one of my dad's friends. Twice, because I wanted to get a drink at the dead of the night. And thrice, when Petunia pushed me in there for a good laugh. I came out covered from head to toe in flour, eggs and milk. She had to push me in there while they were making the usual cakes, didn't she? She had to. Bloody banshee. That's a second reason for me to kill her.

Score.

Anyway, as I took hold of the spotless white napkin, James sneezed, causing his mother to shoot daggers at him. I suppressed a snigger, spreading the serviette over my lap. This was another thing my mother's implanted in my mind over and over again during the near sixteen years of my existence. Something about putting a napkin over your lap before eating - and eating delicately, mind - was seen and taken to be a very ladylike thing to do. Or something like that. I don't really listen to what she says, anyway. Whenever she glares at me, I know a lecture was on the way. So, I just roll my eyes and make eye contact to give her the reassurance that I'm listening to the useless ramble escaping her lips. But really, I start singing horribly within the enclosed walls of my mind. That surely occupies me. It sounds terrible, trust my judgement.

'So, Lillian J.' I flinched slightly, the low voice of Mr. Potter ringing in my ears. 'I hear my boy here has quite the liking for you.'

He did not just say that in front of the whole table.

I looked down at my plate, a smile threatening to spread over my face. Jerking around the pieces of lamb I was about to devour, I could just see James glaring ferociously at his Father. I'm not smiling because James's infatuation of me has been mention at the very start of dinner, hell no. I'm smiling because James has now been embarrassed beyond belief. And in front of three other people no less! In front of _me! _This is too good. I nearly cried with happiness.

'Really?' I responded airily, tilting my head to direct my gaze towards James, my locks tumbling down to one side of my face. 'James?'

Mr. Potter looked horrified. Mrs. Potter raised her eyebrows. I take it they thought that I already knew that James had an infatuation with me, and that bringing it up over dinner at someone else's home was quite the amusing act. I actually _do_ know about his little – _obsession._

I just want to kick James in the arse for all the times he's sent me flowers at the most inconvenient times. He sent me the most beautiful — _no_, no they were ugly, _repulsive _— bouquet of red and white roses on Saint Valentine's Day. God, it was so embarrassing. Even the flippin' owl had a red bow tied carefully around its neck. It didn't look too happy to be carrying such a large bunch of flowers looking like a dork (And I'm sure that's an insult, even for a damn owl). Neither was I, as a matter of fact. Even though I wasn't tied with a bow and sent to deliver a bouquet to some girl, I was furious with James. I threw the gift in the arsehole's face in the Common Room later that night in front of the whole Tower.

Oh, the joys of PMS.

Looking at the black-haired boy beside me, I was so sure my sides were about to split. The laughter hidden within me was screaming to be voiced; I was nearly deaf. But, with the strict look Mother was throwing at me, I think I'm better off keeping silent whilst James searched for an answer. I knitted my eyebrows as James pulled me closer to him, placing his mouth just beside my ear. The husky breath he was exhaling was intoxicating. Gag.

I think I'm going to cleanse myself several times after this. Complete with acid, anti-bacterial and the roughest scrubbing sponge known to the human race.

'You already know I like you,' he hissed, panic evident in his voice. '_Pleas_e don't humiliate me in front of my parents.'

The pleading was almost too much. I ignored his plea. Peh, I did say _almost_. Besides – _like?_ I think that's the biggest understatement since my little cousin said to my uncle when he came prancing in drunk beyond reason: 'What's a little wand doing in between there, Daddy?'.

'Lily?' came Father, a curious edge in his own voice as he carefully placed a piece of jerky in his mouth. 'What have you got to say?'

_What have I got to say?_ What kind of question is _that?_ Did they expect me to accept some proposal or something? What the hell?

Let me at him.

I looked at James. His expression was near laughable. He looked like a pained puppy that was afraid of a new born, wrinkly kitten. I looked at his parents. Mr. Potter had a hand over his mouth and was giving me a scrutinising look.

Not good.

Mrs Potter, however, was now looking at me as if I was one of her large diamond rings or something! This is mental. The dinner is turning out a lot worse than I thought it would. I thought a spilt drink or a hurled pea was all that was going to happen! I thought that would be the most extreme thing that would occur! Never something like this. Bloody hell. My ill wishes towards James triple folded and bit me back in the arse.

Goodie goodie gumdrops for him.

'Well,' I started, glancing at each person on the table. All of their eyes were pivoted to my face, as if expecting me to cry, scream, or murder someone. 'I find it really flattering. Besides, –' I added with a fake chuckle – 'this isn't really new to me.'

_What the hell is wrong with me?!_

I'm sinking into deeper dung with each word bursting from my mouth.

'Really?' came from every mouth, including the now baffled boy next to me. I glared at James and pinched his leg under the table. I smiled angelically as he gave a strangled yelp, though he managed to cover it up with an odd sounding hiccough.

'Really, really,' I responded, smiling as serenely as I could. 'I mean, with all the talking paintings and all at Hogwarts. News goes around fast, I say.'

I forced a laugh, hoping it didn't sound nervous. My laugh must have triggered the ladies to give a gesture of humour themselves because Mother and Mrs. Potter emitted delicate laughs of their own, hands waving daintily in the air. The men, excluding James, gave off jittery low laughs themselves.

Well, that worked well. My neck was narrowly saved that time.

'Of course, of course,' Mother said, and I bet she's relieved that I didn't make a fool of myself in front of the "important people". 'Lily's told me about those things. Talking, she says? Is this true, Meredith? Sounds fishy to me.'

'Why, yes,' replied Mrs Potter smugly, as though boasting about her knowledge of the Wizarding World I was a part of. 'They're painted at first,' – I couldn't help but let a single "Duh" float across my mind — 'Then they're cast over with a spell making them come alive and act as though the real person themselves lived and will live until, well, the painting is destroyed, of course.'

I couldn't stop the continuous Duhs running across my addled brain. Damn her bluntness towards Muggles. She might as well have yelled 'Burn the brainless muggles! Mwahahaha!'

Damn her.

'That's quite extraordinary,' Mother commented, knitting her eyebrows perfectly. 'Do you have any of these – err — moving paintings, Meredith?'

Conversation went on. And on. And on and on. It was like that for the rest of dinner. Bloody hell. I think that was the most boring affair that I've ever had to put up with for the whole of my Life. And that's saying a whole lot of dung, mate. I want to go up and sleep on my bed. My warm, fuzzy, beautifully warm bed where no one can disturb me. Not even Petunia, the growing pony, can even so much as lay a finger on my door. And if she does, ooh … that's a flippin' beating inside and out.

'Dessert in the sitting room, Meredith?' invited Mother, giving Mrs Potter a polite look.

Barf.

'Very well,' Mrs Potter sighed, giving into the beauty of indulging in pudding. 'Not too much, though.'

_Yeah, right, you fat walrus._

'Of course.'

Mother got up and snapped her fingers. A butler came in the instant, a white serviette thing on his arm. He gave a bow as Mother ordered, yes _ordered_, the dessert. It's like living in a museum and restaurant in this house.

Sheesh.

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**Read? Review, then!**


	3. tatlo

* * *

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?) _

_

* * *

_

**Cat and Mouse: The Chase  
**By Ela-chan

_Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_Roses and Pungent Odours_

_

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I made to get up and race to my bedroom, but a gentle touch on my forearm stopped me. I looked back and saw James, with a serious expression on his face, gazing at me with those cursed hazel eyes. I sat down reluctantly, sighing an oh-so-tired sigh. This better be good. I want to have a long date with my pillow.

'What now, Potter?' I said, resigned, placing my elbows on the table. 'If you're going to ask me here, I'm going to bang my silver platter across your forehead.'

James shrugged indifferently.

'Wouldn't be new to me,' he said quietly, touching the nape of his neck. He shot me a furtive look, almost as though hoping I would apologise. Seeing me reply with a glare, however, seemed not to be the gesture he expected.

'Mind coming out in the gardens with me for a little while?'

I gave him a look. He widened his eyes and stuck out his lower lip. Curse him. I started to play around with the fork and spoon that were placed randomly on the table in front of me, purposely stalling.

'Please?'

Bloody hell. I looked at his face again. And laughed. I smiled despite myself.

'All right,' I agreed reluctantly, sighing and getting up.

This is once in a life time thing for him, you know. He better not screw it up for himself. I bet he'll end up making me hate him more than I despise him right now, anyway.

'Only for a little while, though. I don't want mutated moths eating at my eyes.'

James chuckled, getting up swiftly to pull my chair from under me as I stood. Whatever, mister I-think-I-have-manners-to-win-over-the-girl-but-can't-because-she-hates-your-guts. I still can't believe the guy won't face up to the facts.

I. Don't. Like. The. Bastard.

I stood straight and gave James another one of my death glares. He grinned and bowed dramatically. He knew what my scowl meant. He knows that if he makes any kind of wrong move, he'd be screaming uncle the second after he committed it. I rolled my eyes and walked ahead.

Opening the door, a blast of wind caught me and blew at my hair menacingly. I shivered and wrapped my arms around me, just as a long coat appeared at the corner of my eye. Facing James, I raised an eyebrow.

He shrugged, and brandished his coat.

'You look like you'll need it out there more than I will.' He brandished the black, leather coat at me again.

I had no choice but to take it. It was cold, anyway. Might as well make himself useful. I wrapped it around myself and braved the cold wind outside. We walked in silence to the most spacey part of the garden. The flowers around us were resting peacefully, patiently waiting for the rays of the sun to awaken them at the chill of early dawn.

James had his hands jammed in his pockets, looking at the ground, the most thoughtful expression on his face. The wind lashed at his hair, making it more typhoon-tormented than it already was. And, here was me, wrapped in his jacket, all nice and warm, watching the Royal Jackass think. My hair was tucked under the jacket. Thank God. I don't want it to blow off my head. The wind was that strong, seriously.

I hate him.

Hey, even though I'm spending some rare alone time with him, I still loathe the guy. I never thought this would happen in my Life. But it is, so, I'll just float along the stream, hoping it'll lead me to good grounds and not drown me. Or hope James would behave. If not, he better watch his crotch, 'cause I'll be kickin' 'round like a football player, mate.

We walked in stifling silence for a few minutes, with me staring openly at the silver moon. It was almost full and at its peak of sinister eerie-ness and bountiful beauty. The velvet black sky was clear, with the occasional soft dab from an imaginary paint-brush of grey clouds floating by every now and then. The trees were swaying to the fast rhythm of the howling wind, crying for mercy as they were beaten to and fro. A dog barked in the distance. A curse of a man followed. The air felt fresh and raw.

We entered the last flower arch of the garden. Various sparkling insects were roaming about, probably looking around for a munch or a kill. We were in the most secluded place in the whole of our Manor.

Hmm.

I looked at James. He seemed so secretive.

I rolled my eyes. Wonder what the hell we're doing here.

Approaching one of the pale violet benches, James walked a little swiftly ahead and got there first. He bent, sending strands of his black hair cascading over his hazel depths, and dusted a part of it off, making sure it was spotless enough for the Queen herself. He then reached into his pocket. For a moment there, as I stopped a few feet from him to see what he was up to, I thought he was going to shoot me or something.

But no.

Amazingly, he pulled out two rain patterned flowers.

A Red Rose. And a White Lily.

He looked to me momentarily and gave a gentle smile, as if searching, in my features, an etched approval for him to continue whatever the hell he was doing. I found myself returning the gesture – then cursing myself seconds afterwards. Watching, with my eyes practically shining with marvel, I nodded my head slowly.

All out tonight, he is.

One by one, he carefully plucked each magnificent petal from the rose. Each pull was gentle. Each petal was placed lovingly and randomly on the bench, forming what looked to be a heart. Holy Lord. This guy really is something.

After he accomplished the perfect heart he was after, he looked over it and sighed. Was that a hopeful sigh? Or a Now-I'm-going-to-put-everything-on-the-line sigh? Or an I-hope-I-don't-make-an-arse-out-of-myself sigh? I didn't have time to think. He was walking towards me. His eyes locked with mine. I couldn't look away. He had me transfixed and _extremely_ curious.

In a bad way, though.

Definitely bad.

'May I?' he whispered softy, stopping only about half a dozen inches from my face. My mouth was slightly open and my eyes a dark emerald green. The breaths I was exhaling froze slightly in the chilly air, floating between our much too close faces.

In his right hand, the lily was gently gripped.

'May you what?' I responded, squinting my eyes ever so slightly. A flicker of emotion ran over his face. I never quite caught what it was. He smiled and came ever so closer. I couldn't move. I wanted to move. I wanted to bolt, run away, hide. But I couldn't. I couldn't wrench away from his gaze, from his smell, from _him_.

Idiot Bastard.

He raised the hand which held the Lily. I felt the flawless stem of the small flower slide down the back of my ear.

He was placing it amidst my hair.

My breath seemed to be caught in my throat as his stare intensified to the extremes. If I was looking at him like that, I bet he'd piss himself. A dull buzzing was growing in the back of my mind, spiralling and nearly shouting. I closed my eyes slowly, hoping his intoxicating smell would go away.

No such luck.

I wrenched my eyes open.

Those eyes never budged from the zealous stare he was piercing into me. It was starting to make me quiver. A few moments passed after the lily had been placed perfectly into my hair. He left his arm fall slowly to his side. Once again, a flicker of feeling bolted across his features. And, yet again, I did not catch what it was. Damn him. The hatred I had especially for him intensified, yet it softened and calmed. I don't like this. Not at all.

'James?' I asked, my voice a weak whisper, carried away by the strong arms of the howling wind.

'W-what –?'

I faltered as I saw him shake his head slowly, his eyes averted to the ground. A small serene smile played on his lips. I growled inwardly. This guy is so insufferable. What the hell – who the hell – _why _the hell –

'Sit?' he inquired, patting the bench gently and giving me a questioning glance.

His expression was that of a tiny five year old requesting a barrel of forbidden ginger ale. Hah. Priceless. I walked up to him and inclined my head sarcastically. Don't ask me why. The bitterness I had for him still existed within me. Not my fault he's been an arse for the passed four or so years.

Making sure I didn't ruin the pretty heart thing James composed, I carefully sat and wiggled to make myself comfortable. The jacket certainly was very warm. James sat on the other side of the bench cautiously, making sure there was plenty of space between us. He has learned well. I could see form the corner of my eye that he was looking at his fingers, a curious expression on his jaw and forehead.

Odd be thy name of James Harry Potter.

We sat in silence for a long while, with James now wringing his hands nervously and with me blowing at the lone strands of hair floating in my face for amusement. A lady beetle landed on my finger randomly, causing me to knit my eyebrows and frown slightly. I brought it up to me eyes and squinted. Bringing my other index finger to squish it senseless or playfully pat it, I don't know which I want to do, I suppressed a giggle. Finger was up and nearing bug. Nearing, nearing – almost there –

'Lily?'

It flew away.

Curse you, James Potter.

I grunted.

'Will you go out with me?'

I gritted my teeth. There it was. Should have known the arsehole would get right to the point. Good thing I bought none of this bullshit he pulled. I swivelled my head quickly and glared at him, causing the guy to gulp and loosen his collar quite nervously.

Good. Got him scared. Serves the jackass right, don't it? Hell yeah. I hate him.

'I mean –'

'Stow it, Potter,' I snarled, getting up and letting the jacket slip off. 'Should have known.'

I cared not that the sudden gust of wind the jacket created had ruined the heart he had made especially for me. I didn't care that the usual annoyance that surfaced whenever he asked that question boiled. I began walking away, my pace quickening to a trot, to a run, to an all out sprint.

The conceited, ugly, _son of a_ –

'Lily, wait!'

I didn't bother turning around.

Still in a sprint, I smirked contently as I heard Potter swear colourfully. The bastard. Did he think he could buy me that easily? I mean, honestly. Did he expect me to degrade myself like those other girls he flirts with at Hogwarts?

_Oh, Jamesie! Whisk me away to an everlasting cloud and snog me senseless forever! _

Psh. Yeah sodding right. Not in a million years would that happen to _me_. Not in a million years would Lillian J. Evans fall for James wanking Potter, A.K.A _'Bloody gay arse King of Hogwarts.'_

It's just not going to happen, all right? Now, all I've got to do is get that little oh-so hard to understand fact into that thick, thick_, thick_ skull belonging to the cause of all this. That guy belongs in hell. He's the gift from the very King of the fires himself.

_Please_, take him back, Mister Satan Sir, he's causing too much trouble for everyone, for _Hogwarts_ – he'll catapult Dumbledore into an early grave at the rate those sodding Marauders are going. And, better yet, he's causing too much trouble for _me._

By the time I had the security to look over my shoulder and not see Sir Prance-About breathing down my neck, I stopped and leant against one of the many benches scattered across the Evans property, slightly out of breath. A sigh escaped my lips, turning into frozen fog only inches from my mouth. That Potter – _ugh_. For a minute there, I thought the arse had dropped that attitude I hate so much. For a moment, I thought we would actually have exchanged words beyond the usual 'Kiss my arse, Potter!' and 'I'll do more than that, Evans!' scenario.

Peh.

Guess my expectations were too high.

But, honestly, the things I expect from him could be fulfilled by my three month old cousin, and the little thing still gurgled and licks his crib.

Potter had to ruin my little ray of hope for him that he might not have been one of the shallow people at Hogwarts who go for exterior instead of interior. Nope. He's one of them. The '_Oh, look, there's an eye candy. She's my shag tonight' young men who have that on their mind every sodding moment of their lives._ Awake, asleep and half dead.

He's one of _them._

And his wanking friends aren't so far behind, either.

I brought the loose wristwatch close to my eyes, cursing the darkness now engulfing my surroundings. I couldn't see the time. Crap. Squinting now, I could only just make it out.

10:30.

I swore loudly, and rather colourfully at that. My eyes did an immediate once over of what was around me, dully hoping Mother was not around to hear that. Phew. Good. I'd get pummelled if she heard my saying those 'demon sent words too lowly for the likes of Evans lips, my daughter!'

Yeah. Whatever.

Like I said, I never listen to what she says most of the time. 'Lillian Evans!' – She hates saying "Lillian J." – 'Get your mind out of the clouds and _listen to me!'_

Or something like that.

Walking inside, I could still hear the laughing – fake laughter, mind – coming from the sitting room. The laughter was high and low, so I can safely jump to the conclusion that Father and Potter Senior have joined the simpering dogs – I meant Mother and Potter's wife. Maybe I could escape to my room and just hide there so James can't –

'Lily!'

I groaned, hand on doorknob and back to the panting male bitch.

'Lily – _listen_ – back there – I didn't mean to –'

The breathe-slowly-and-count-to-ten-thing Geneva – good friend from Hoggy Warty – taught me a few months ago to control my temper did not do jack right then. I couldn't keep my temper under wraps. I swivelled, my locks swishing and eyes terribly violent, fists clenched and ready to make contact with his jaw and / or nose.

'Look_, Potter,'_ I spat the word out in an uncanny expression of my Mother when she's talking to me. 'Go back to your hole. Get out of my face. Leave me alone, here and at Hogwarts or wherever _and _whenever you see me. If you come near me again, I'm going to do more than smash your face in.'

By the time I finished, my breathing was ragged and deep. I could see James's eyes flicker, his jaw tightening and brow creasing.

Yep. He was confused. Dumbass.

'In other words, nark off.'

With that, I swung open the door and ran upstairs, not bothering to keep the noise down, and left him out in the cold, staring at the ground with an almost heart-broken expression.

Ha. Almost felt sorry for the guy.

_Almost.___

I didn't come out of my room the rest of the night. Laughing could still be heard around the stroke of midnight. I rolled my eyes countless times.

**Lesson of the day:** James Potter is a pompous, arrogant, no good, conceited nark-head who deserves to be castrated, stuffed and hurled over the Astronomy Tower by yours truly.

Yep. What will it take for the guy to own up that his ego is bigger than his head? Urgh. I tried giving him the hint last year by saying in front of a whole group of students that I'd rather date the Giant Squid over him. Got a real laugh out of that one, I did. So did a few others, as a matter of fact.

But guess what?

Nothing will penetrate that thick skull of his.

Only Transfiguration, Pranks and the concept of bimbos go through his tiny mind.

* * *

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	4. apat

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?) _

_

* * *

_

**Cat and Mouse: The Chase  
**By Ela-chan

_Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?_

* * *

**Chapter Four**

_Mother and Daughter_

* * *

--

Around the hour passed midnight, I heard the closing of our massive front door after shrill goodbyes and tatas were exchanged.

Then – silence through the house.

I gave a sigh of relief.

Just about to roll over on my bed and catch some snooze when –

'Lillian J. Evans!'

Holy crud. She used the 'J.' She used it. She never uses it. Now she did. Uh oh.

'_Come down here this instant!'_

I knew the peace and quiet wouldn't last long. I glared at everything in sight, violent images of that idiot being boiled, quartered, barbequed and whatnot running through my head.

I just _know_ what I'm in for. A good telling off, a really severe punishment and the usual bad things triple fold.

All thanks to James sodding Potter.

I wondered dully if I could just jump out of my window to get away from that _woman_.

For a moment, I considered hexing my mother into a harpy with a fetish for corn, but I knew that wouldn't go too well with her. She'd probably peck at me and imagine me as corn on the cob 'til I turn her back.

Spiffing Mother, I have, really.

Absolute _corker_ of a woman.

I sighed as I gathered myself up lethargically, taking as much time as I could without purposely annoying Mother.

Now why would I want to do that …?

Opening the door, the possibility of cursing her into the next millennium popped into my head.

Nah. Wouldn't want any other unfortunate human being to know someone like _her_ ever existed.

'How _dare_ you behave as you did back there?!' she hollered, catching site of me the instant my foot descended the first step. Strands of her red hair – I'm an exact replica of my mother, trust me – were starting to fall from that impossibly tight bun of hers, and she was pointing at me, as if accusing me of murder or something.

'_What _they must think of you! You were absolutely _appalling!_'

_Oh, forgive me, almighty one. Spare me from the rusted cork screws. _

I rolled my eyes inwardly, only just managing to hide the grin threatening to appear.

She waited for me to sit myself on the dining table. I took my time doing that, too, careful to avoid Mother's narrowed eyes.

When I did sit, she proceeded to holler at me, practically foaming at the mouth. She is so lucky I can hold my equal temper when it came to her rants about how bad of a daughter I am. If I didn't have dad's self control trait, I'd've strangled her a long time ago with my bare hands, then kicked her in the gut when she was down.

'And James – he must think you as a farmer's _pig!_'

_I don't think she saw the irony of saying this. Her? A farmer? _

My head snapped up sharply, an odd glint suddenly appearing in my eye. Mother seemed unperturbed.

'The way you were _behaving_ around him. I'm _ashamed_ to be your mother!'

'Yeah, well,' Lily said savagely, unable to bite her tongue down any longer. 'Why don't you all do us a favour and end your misery by jumping off the garden cliff?'

Mother visibly sputtered at that, completely caught off guard, as she was not used to my answering back whenever her ranting feasts began.

This night's going to be longer than I expected.

After mother had gotten over the fact that I had the spine to answer back, she advanced on me like a vulture ready to tear apart its prey, limb from limb, and muscle from muscle. I refused to gulp down the fear welling in my chest. So this is the reason why I was afraid of my own mother.

_She had my temper. _

I think I may die tonight. I wonder if I could have my grave littered with red roses and white lilies like James –

_James. _

The moron. He's the cause of all this! Gods, how I would love to wring that filthy neck of his. Make him splutter out mercy and make him not ever so much as speak or look at me ever flipping again.

'_What_,' Mother seethed through gritted teeth, her manic emerald eyes flashing dangerously as she stared me down condescendingly, '_did you say?_'

I couldn't help it. I recoiled and gulped.

'Oh, heh. Did I say something?,' I squeaked out, breaking her gaze and looking to the floor, something close to shame seeping through me. 'N-Nothing, Mother.'

She placed her fingers under my chin and tilted my head up so sharply a few bones cricked. I winced.

'Do not lie to me, child,' she snarled, her perfect, pearly teeth glinting evilly in the lighting. '_What_ did you say?'

I could see Father out of the corner of my eye, watching me helplessly. We both knew he could do nothing whenever Mother started to abuse me like this. The only thing he could do was watch and see what the outcome would be like. He was usually the one who comforted me after Mother had spat out her anger all over me.

I couldn't answer Mother's question. The anger glazing in her eyes was too much for me stand. I felt my eyes start to sting, due to me refusal of having to cry in front of her, showing her the weak spot she had always affected within me. She knew I hated being accosted like this. But still, she did it.

I love the woman, I honestly do. But sometimes, her temper – _our_ temper – gets the best of her when it involves having to look good before others.

Her cold hands let my face go, her eyes softening ever so slightly when she saw the lone tear spring from my eye. I hastily wiped it away and looked back at Mother. She stood in front of me, scowling slightly with one of her hands resting on her slender hips.

I mumbled an apology, casting my gaze to the ground again, feeling nothing but remorse and the like over my behaviour tonight. She had a way to make me feel like everything was my fault; that it was I who made her snap at me like this.

In a way, most of the time, I believed it was so.

'Go to bed, Lillian,' she said evenly a moment later, pointing a delicate finger up the stairs. I stood shakily and nodded, stepping tentatively towards her. She leant forward a planted a soft kiss on my forehead. Even though she was furious with me, she had always found time to show her love for me.

Maybe I did have a reason to love Mother.

'Good night, daughter,' she said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I bowed my head and climbed the stairs as fast as my trembling legs could carry me. I hugged father on the way. He kissed me too, and hugged a little longer than necessary.

Strange how emotions could get the better of you sometimes. Even stranger that love could squeeze its way through anywhere.

--

I spent most of the night thinking the evening over.

From the introduction, the dinner, James, Mother, Father, the garden, James, my fleeing, Mother, feelings … _James._

I glared at the ceiling.

Everything seems to start with him.

James. _James_ **_James_******

Bloody James.

* * *

**--**

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	5. lima

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?) _

_

* * *

_

**Cat and Mouse: The Chase  
**By Ela-chan

_Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?_

* * *

**Chapter Five**

_Suspicious, suspicious_

* * *

--

The rest of the summer felt like it collapsed on its hands and knees and crawled, agonizingly slow, forced and unwilling. More meetings with other 'sophisticated' parties of people were very frequent through it all, thoroughly irritating me to hell and back. They, and there were various numbers of people who came, stayed from a wide range of times, from an hour, to the whole day, stretching into the night. And with each and every meeting, Mother introduced me, and then promptly sent me to my room, without looking or sounding remotely rude in front of the guests.

Oh, how I long to break something in this forsaken house, preferably one of her damn near irreplaceable China pieces.

I guess she either wanted to avoid having another one of my 'blatant misbehaviours' or she had not the heart to scold me as fiercely as she did the night of the Potter's visit. Even though I highly doubt the latter, I never jumped to conclusions out-loud, for fear of having one of the maids snitch on me.

I spent most of my time sprawled on my bed, alone, feet suspended in mid-air, and going over my fifth year notes rather absently, flicking through them but not registering a single a word. I had given up when I mistook a Panda Kidney for Professor McGonagall's first name. Making that mistake, of course, made me think twice about having thoughts of vicious death plots, about someone with a name starting with J, that kept me so occupied that my eyes betrayed my mind.

I had earned a total of fourteen O.W.Ls, and I can surely say that, when Mother had knew about them, it was one of the very rare occasions that I witnessed a genuine smile reach her eyes. It was usually, 'You can do better, Lillian,' whenever I did something above average, but this time, I got a smile from her.

I don't know why it makes me feel like a bubble of satisfaction welled in my chest when her lips curved into a gesture of approval. Maybe because I hardly accomplish things that were ever good enough for her? I don't know. And I bloody well gave up pondering about that a long time ago. Too much stress for a young mind, I tell you.

Anyway, enough of that.

The day that Diagon Alley must be visited finally came.

--

* * *

--

I knocked on the door thrice before opening it, and instantly regretted it the moment I set foot inside.

For what reason? I was about to find out.

A fierce glare met my eyes, catapulting me out of my wits rather violently. I flinched, and recoiled slightly, remembering vaguely the rule Mother had told me countless a time.

_'Come when you're called upon.'_

Mother had never called me up, at all. Bloody ever lasting hell. I could literally feel the delicate hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end, as if they shared the feeling of sudden fear every other particle of my body was drowning in.

This will not be good.

She must have seen the rather obvious fear that sprang in my eyes, igniting a flame of anxiety and apprehension. Her own emerald ones softened, and a reassuring smile twitched on her lips gracefully, as if saying 'I'll let you off this time'. I relaxed, a feeling of intense relief sweeping over me, and I suddenly felt grateful for the word 'mercy'.

I ignored the sudden nagging of 'Forgive the Potter Arse and snog him already' and slipped into the room, closing the door quietly behind me. I was pretty sure Mother heard the loud grinding of my teeth as I tried quite aimlessly to forced disgusting images of _his_ lips and mine locked together in a passionate game of tongue hockey.

Spare me.

'Come here, daughter,' Mother said softly, jolting me out of the corners of my thoughts. I obeyed without missing a heartbeat, and knelt in front of her. She placed a dainty hand on my head first, and then tilted my chin so I faced her. A soft kiss was placed on my forehead, and she patted my cheek affectionately.

'What is your purpose, child?'

I grimaced inwardly.

She sounded like I was trading salt and red meat, for God's sake!

'Term is starting soon, Mother –' I found myself blurting out.

'I'm well aware, Lillian.'

'— and I need to get my supplies.'

She blinked. 'Oh.'

Mother looked thoughtful for a moment, and then offered a grin. My stomach twisted nervously. She has to have reason to smile at me like that.

I'm officially queasy.

'Very well, Lillian,' she said, and rose gracefully. I scrambled up, a little clumsily, I might add, but Mother didn't see. She was still lost in thought. My nervousness heightened.

I don't like this.

* * *

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	6. anim

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?) _

_

* * *

_

**Cat and Mouse: The Chase  
**By Ela-chan

_Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?_

* * *

**Chapter Six**

_Shrives and Why I hate her so_

* * *

--

"Be sure to keep a good eye out tomorrow, Jay,' Father whispered in my hair as he kissed me goodnight. His lips upon my forehead were startlingly cold, but the warmth of his smile settled around me, and worry flew from my mind like a dove released. "And be sure to watch where you cross, all right? Wouldn't want you to be caught between two broomsticks or anything like that now, do we?"

Just because I'm bloody sixteen and that my Father still tucks me in every now and then doesn't mean that you can laugh.

Father allowed himself a little chuckle, one that I found myself smiling genuinely at. The sound was exactly the same as when I was not even a year old; that deep, comforting rumble: the sound just before a cold rainfall was to commence.

A strange, vague emotion that I haven't felt in a long while jolted in my naval, causing a crinkling of puzzlement and memory across my forehead. Images of the past flitted behind my eyes half-heartedly, trapping my mind in a place where I once thought I would die.

It was a month after Mother married Father, and exactly a week before Dad died.

You see, when Mother married Dad, he already had an illness that was diagnosed to be fatal. It was a brain aneurysm, one that he was born with, and was too late to heal when they actually spotted it during his twenty-fifth year of Life. By then, the aneurysm had already grown beyond anything Dad's doctors could help, and it was announced a helpless case. Mother cried for weeks. I never pitied her. I know. I couldn't believe it, either. I got the heftiest and longest scolding when I screamed out _'Bullshit!'_ in her face when she told me. Maybe that's why my hearing's not much of a help sometimes.

Nevertheless, despite all the warnings Dad's doctors scolded him with, Petunia was born, and, well, one could say she was – and still _is_, mind you – a walking miracle.

Mother insisted I call her a _'walking miracle'_ instead of my very creative _'limping penguin with epilepsy'. _

During Mother's seventh month of pregnancy, she was diagnosed with Preeclampsia, and the doctors were almost certain both Mother and baby weren't going to make it. Mother – according to _her_, anyway – went into labour two months before her due date, positively catapulting Dad into a severe heart-attack, one that sent _everyone else_ into a flurry of panic and confusion and whatnot. On top of the worry Mother had over her and her baby's lives, she added some extra lung power when she heard her husband was having a heart attack.

It wasn't exactly the most prettiest of sights. Doctors from hospitals never did look at her the same again.

But, as Mother said, Lady Luck seemed to have been on their good side that day. The delivery went as smoothly as one could ever hope for despite the circumstances, and Dad got through his third heart attack-alive with the price of half his body becoming paralysed.

Two years later, Dad's condition neither improved nor deteriorated. Petunia was a plump little baby horse – err, **_girl_** – with lustrous – insert gag here – golden locks, and Dad's honey eyes. Mother said that Petunia was wondering where her Dad was, and that she – Mother, that is – was too afraid to tell her daughter that her Dad was going to die any day now.

Fear?

_My _Mother?

She-who-hung-my-underwear-above-the-steaming-pot-of-spaghetti-so-that-it-'dried-quicker'? The one person on earth who can smile through seven straight hours of _'Les Miserable'_ and can still tell me what to do rather than trip on her heels and die?

Yeah. I can take that.

It had been two and a half weeks since anyone had seen the sun by then. The clouds were grey and low and impossible, almost to the touch and rumbled through and through the day like it had an implausible case of pregnant PMS. Rain patterned the glass windows like little bird feet in snow from East to West Wing and showed no signs of stopping its bitch fit any time soon.

On January sixteenth, Dad's paralysed fingers twitched. A pen was given to him within the time span it took Petunia to find a flirting victim, and Dad wrote:

_'I want another baby girl.' _

Mother wept even harder if it was even possible. She, of course, agreed. Sperm was collected from Dad, and doctors fertilized an ovum within Mother.

I point blank refuse to gain a mental image as to how that was to occur. I'm too young, I tell you. And if someone in their right minds would even _dare _to mention how this process was to take place, I will disfigure their wands, and not in the literary sense, mind.

Scared?

Mate. Run for the hills.

So. Sometime later, guess who was born?

Lillian J. Grey.

And guess who named her?

Dad – who was once known as 'Father' before Mother's affair came into light – did.

Not even a month after my birth, it seemed Mother was becoming impatient with Dad's disease. So, being the ultimate insatiable ass that she was, she sought out another partner, and not only did she do this while her own husband's life was dangling by the thinnest of thin threads, she married him privately with my tiny body in her arms.

She was Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Evans all at once.

And that was the seed from which my hatred for her blossomed.

Dad died in hospital just seven days after Mother married Father, and the affair was the last thing he heard of when he took his last breath. Mother didn't cry. Father was guilty. Petunia ran away from home. (Okay, she didn't _run away_. She only got as far as the gardens before collapsing into hysterical tears.)

I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I was three weeks old for chrissake! My five pence bet would be that I was very, _very_ busy licking my crib bars and sucking on things preferred not to be mention for the whole world to hear.

I grew up thinking Father was Dad. Mother had forbade Petunia to tell me what had happened and that she herself would tell me 'in due time'.

Yeah, _bloody right_ she would. She told me, all right, on my seventh birthday. I never forgave her for not telling me sooner. I never forgave her for betraying our family. I never forgave her for not comforting Petunia when she cried over his death. I never forgave her for killing Dad.

"Jay? Are you crying, darling? What's wrong?"

I felt a sudden wash of guilt engulf me, so much so that it showed itself in solid form. I could not stop the tears.

"No, Father. Just something in my eye."

"All right, Jay," he said softly, knowing that it was a moment where I preferred not to talk about anything anymore, much less about the reason as to why I was weak enough to cry. "Remember what I said. Be careful when you go to Diagon Alley tomorrow, all right? Good night, my darling. I'm sure you'll sleep well."

I didn't. He lied.

Even though the face of Dad never really, permanently set itself into my mind like it did in Petunia's, nightmares and dreams of him plagued my mind as my tear-flooded eyes fluttered shut. My bony fingers clung desperately, angrily, sadly to the silken texture of my childhood blanket, and I murmured Dad's name all through the night.

What I thought to be his face haunted me, and I did not wake the next morning.

I'm sixteen, reader. I shouldn't be thinking about a dead father I wouldn't even recognise if I died myself and he showed himself to me and what my mother would do to my otherwise healthy body at the next 'outing' she brings into our home / museum. It wasn't natural for a girl my age to be so worryingly concerned about these things. I should be anxious about the state of my split-ends, dry palms, breaking nails, bad breath, bad kissing, boys, Potter and his Marauders. That's the way it should be, but I don't know why it isn't and why it is. That's really the sum of my life. A hyperactive inhuman ball of 'why' and 'why not' that harasses me in the middle of the night when I'm most vulnerable. Not only am I to deal with the constant taunting of my Mother day in and sometimes day out, I'm substantially subjected to being mentally tortured with a depressing past I can't even fully fucking remember.

I tried waking up in the morning, but it didn't work. Scratch that; it _wouldn't_ work. Honest to God, I wanted to resurface from sleep, I really did. But something, or someone, was restraining me, as though they had struck in the night, bounding me to the bed by whirling tight leather strings all over my body and over my sense of … well, sense of _sense_, really. It sounds like I had been raped, but thank whatever deity out there that I felt _un_violated and whole and that I could probably stand without completely shredding what was left of my hymen.

It's a dark place in the mind, did you know? Like a blank, void space of nothingness invaded by trickles of black and grey and white. All those colours – excuse me, _shades_ – entwined and groped at one another, as though reaching for a secret they had within their reach. It was cold, too. Not physically cold where I could grab any body to heat my own and tell them to shut up when they uttered an arrogant _'Excuse you, young lady'_ or even a 'And you said we couldn't bang in the Charms closet'. It was … kind of like a liquid, plastic-like coolness that hovered and lingered between freezing point and comfort zone for a waterfall. It was odd to be trapped in my own mind and not feel remotely scared out of my skirt. I fleetingly, half-heartedly, curiously wonder what's wrong with me, the same way I would wonder why silver bullets killed werewolves and not bronze.

Right now, though, the only thing I can properly think of is how much Mother would be scared and haunted by a déjà vu likely to come back to her. And I just hope the devil himself will come and shove his ugly face through the curtain while she's attempting to clean them and scare, no, _beat_ the living crap out of her with his on-fire fork. Honest to everything I've ever stood for, I hope she's scared for someone other than herself for once, and _feeling like a normal, helpless human being_.

Mother, wherever you are right now, you deserve this inexorable pain and I hope it scars you for life just like you've scarred me with Dad's.

--

--

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	7. pito

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?) _

_

* * *

_

**Cat and Mouse: The Chase  
**By Ela-chan

_Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?_

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**Chapter Seven**

_Before and What Comes_

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The morning dawned without preamble and the day began in bright illuminato. An impossibly clear sky boasted and highlighted the sun's _good morning bitch_ rays, casting light throughout the world and into the ocean depths. Yet despite the almost-godly hour and strength of the sun, neither mere fragment nor strip of light penetrated the cement-like curtains of the Evans residence.

So, naturally, it was rather the tedious chore to have to wake up from the recesses of one's subconscious mind to commence their daily routine of eat, badger, screw, bother, badger, eat and possibly shower. It was a shame, really, to have them miss out on such a lovely day of buzzing, smiley bees, honeysuckle-scented air and little pink tinted wisps of hybrid clouds. It was a shame, truly, for those who were tangled amidst their silken, inhumanely expensive duvets. They just blatantly refused to come awake.

It was almost midday in their part of lonely England and it appeared as though the Evans family and the rest of their staff / slaves / cooks / etcetera were going to sleep through out it all. That was their profound intention, of course, until Petunia burst into her sister's room, foaming at the mouth, mistaking her own music that she had left open the night before to be her sister's irksome stereo. She was planning on howling at Lillian J. until both their ears imploded into unknown pieces, but when she caught site of the paleness and sickly look of her sister and how no movement stirred at a loud sound, she did the only thing that a composed, highly calm older sister would do if faced in such a dramatic circumstance.

She screamed at the top of her lungs.

The pitch of her scream climaxed at near sonic-boom level, making the several tens of pairs of feet pounding up the stairs become implausible to hear. Bare feet smeared with coal and flour and whatnot along with many bodies still shaking themselves from the clutches of sleep exploded through the door, knocking Petunia off her feet and onto the floor, silencing her effectively.

Many cries of _'Who in the name of all things holy is making that racket so early in the morning?'_, _'Who did that?_', _'What's wrong?_' and _'ARGH!'_ erupted in the air, mingling harmoniously with the still steady twitter-croak that was Petunia.

Gregory, who was the chief cook around the Evans place, was the only one who did not resort to covering his ears from the stupid sound their little mistress was still bloody making. With the grace of a man trained by an aristocrat since he was a little tot smearing carrots all over the walls, he strode to Petunia in dignified steps, face stoic, and promptly shoved her, nightgown, nightcap and all, into the nearest hole – which happened to be Lillian J.'s shoe cupboard. She was silenced, either from the smell of the shoes overwhelming her horse nostrils, or from the shock that one of the servants actually dared become violent.

All five lower-ranked workers stared profoundly at their superior, some blatantly impressed, some abhorrently adoring. A pause occurred in which Gregory waved delicately away their hushed praise. Having dealt with one Evans daughter, he instinctively looked over to the other and what he saw promptly stole away what was left of the colour in his face and instantly let his emotions show through.

'Get Mrs Evans,' he hissed to the closest person. The ordered complied immediately and raced down the several stair cases and corridors to summon the summoned. The other four patiently questioned what their orders were but having received a harsh 'be quiet' recoiled and shrank back, like vulnerable puppies shown a torch and burned with it.

Gregory walked briskly to the side of Lillian J.'s bed, eyes bewildered. He gulped nervously, laying the back of his hand across his charge's pale forehead. The temperature was normal. He narrowed his eyes, suspicion trickling in. With a steady hand, he felt the pulse of her heart by the throat. Normal as normal could be. He stepped back, bewildered, and surveyed her with a detached eye. No sweat coated her skin, her breathing wasn't erratic, just steady … she wasn't thrashing, as though haunted by a nightmare. It was as though she were sleeping soundly, normally, without anything amiss. Except the blood from her face. She was pale, yes, but that was it.

'… lucky I haven't _fired_ you or _set you on fire, _ungratefulmiscreant – _Gregory!'_

Ah, Mrs Evans.

Storming footsteps rattled the space around the chef. He stood firmly and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. With a calm air, he looked at the seething woman before him and inclined his head respectfully, to which Mrs Evans huffed unsurprisingly at.

'What in the name of all things holy is _wrong_ with you?' She cuffed him around the ear as if he were a child. 'Waking us up at the _crack of dawn_ – I should have you burned for that!'

It's like _I'm_ the witch, Gregory thought airily.

'Madame,' he said, clearing his throat politely. 'It's just -- err, your daughter, Madame. She might be a little, err, indisposed.' He pointed to the bed. Mrs Evans' eyes followed angrily, mind insisting the violent way out. What she saw, however, forced all other thought from her mind and forced one particular one to replace it all.

_tubes__ liquid wheeze i'm sorry medicine white impossible daughter_

She fell back, fur-padded feet taking involuntary steps away from her youngest daughter. All emotion melted from her face, leaving it a bare surface, like an unfinished sculpture of glass.

_i__ do care i don't for you it's not like that i didn't mean to wasn't thinking_

She backed away, and away, until her back collided with the door. The people once behind her parted ways, letting her through. Her hand was shaking as it groped and groped for the rasp of the door, apparent desperation obvious to all. When her fingers found it, they gripped for a long moment, still, with a vice-like grip. Her eyes seemed to quiver in their sockets as she looked on at her stationery daughter. Glints that may or may not be tears twinkled by her ducts. She was still devoid of all feeling, her body like an empty chasm, wind billowing, like a hallow echo.

'I – I –' she tried, free hand shooting to her throat as though something there damned the breath from her lungs. Slowly, she began trembling. First her hands, then her arms, then her torso. But before her legs followed suit, she turned, and fled from the room.

Every pair of eyes, bar one, stared bewilderedly at her wake. The lone couple left belonged to Mr Evans, plain worry dotted by his temples.

'Gregory, kindly fetch the family doctor,' he said, not an ounce of order in his tone. It seemed his voice received the same reaction as his wife's screech. The head chef inclined his head a little lower than he did to Mrs Evans and walked resolutely out of the room, but not without a backward, anxious glance at the grown little girl he used to feed apple pieces. As soon as his footsteps faded to nil, the head of the house sent the others watching to retrieve what they thought would assist the present circumstances. They too bowed and scuffled out.

A brief silence bathed Mr Evans and he took the moment as opportune. He slowly breathed in and out, soothing the nerves contracting in his mind and in his body. Those observant eyes of his closed on instinct. His façade may have been comforting and brave from another's point of view, but he knew his own feet were touching the cliff's edge, ready to keep inching forward, and forward, until he fell. Strength only went as far as his emotions would let, and his emotions were easily tampered with. His eyes opened and he found his mind clearer. A thought struck him, one that brought upon the mystery of what the house cooks were doing in his daughter's bedroom in the first place.

'Petunia,' he muttered to himself at once, a slight creasing taking him between the eyes. He stood straighter, ignoring the agonizing silence that was uncharacteristic of his Lily's private dwelling. With two once-overs of the wide room, he made for the shoe cupboard and wrenched it open. As soon as the scene revealed itself, Mr Evans revelled in the fact that he could witness such a site.

There, curled in a foetal position, was his eighteen-year-old daughter, thumb in between her lips and snoring contently. Warmth of a Father's love seeped into him and he looked at her for a longer while, cursing time for letting her grow up so fast. A great ball of memory, however, slammed itself at the back of his head in the form of a clumsy servant offering a basin with furious muttering of how the household was in total chaos.

'Why?' asked Mr Evans, rubbing the back of his head and taking the basin from the youth. 'Thank you for bringing this up.'

'It's the Missis, Sir,' the youth blurted, bowing thrice in the one sentence, creating interesting effects with his voice. 'She hasn't given the orders for the party this evening and the party commences in seven hours and no one is ready and the little mistresses' clothes have not arrived from –'

'Will you stop that confounded bowing?' demanded Mr Evans, feeling a knot of impatience swelling by his jaw. The voice effects of the young man did not ease many things.

'I apologize, Sir!' squeaked he, desisting and stepping back. He wrung his hands over and over, eyes so overly bright. Mr Evans saw a trickle of cold sweat crawl down his face. His eyes narrowed, and without warning, he slammed the young man on the wall adjacent.

'Who are you?' he hissed, eyes matching the brightness of the youth's.

'Jo – Joseph, Sir,' croaked the reply, voice almost a wheeze. 'Sir, if you please, you're hurting me –'

'What do you know?' Mr Evans growled, nose almost touching Joseph's. His teeth were feral bared and a vein pounded in his temple. His long fingers fisted the boy's flour-stained shirt, creating wrinkles that would go unnoticed in the kitchen.

Joseph squeaked again in reply and looked everywhere else but the intense face of Mr Evans.

'_Answer me_.' The hiss sent shivers through him and Joseph's bravery wavered.

'Nothing, Sir, it's just that I – I – I saw something that wasn't right last night in the kitchens but Gregory said to leave it because he needed me to do something else and I couldn't do anything about it because he hauled me away from the toffee apples and I –'

'Toffee apples?!' exploded Mr Evans, throwing Petunia out of the recesses of her slumber. She leapt from the closet and into the room with a pained yelp, slipping on a fur rug. Neither man noticed her unceremonious heap on the floor.

'_What_ toffee apples?!'

Joseph whimpered and clawed at the hands around his shirt.

'Please, Sir, I'm only recalling what I said and I didn't see much of it and I don't know if what I saw what correct –'

Mr Evans ground the boy harder into the wall, making sure to create bruises for him to nurse for the next week. There was something not right at work here, and when it involved foul play and his youngest daughter, it was his business, prerogative and duty to make sure she was not hurt. The thought of this failure under his nose forced him to react unusually violent.

'Didn't see much of _what_?! What _bloody _toffee apples?!'

Joseph's breathing was erratic. The air was tightening. The pin was about to fall.

'Nothing, Sir! I just saw someone who didn't belong drop something into the toffee while it was boiling and then Gregory dipped the apples Miss Lilliane loves into it and when I looked back the person was gone and – and – and I don't know, Sir!'

The boy collapsed into tears and once Mr Evans released him from his grip, Joseph fled out of the room and into the kitchens, frightened tears burning his reddened cheeks.

Mr Evans stood there, hands still aloft and facing the wall. A sense of wonder and apprehension scorched through the tunnels of his veins and across the senses he possessed. Something isn't right, he thought vaguely, something, someone … _did _something to his little girl.

He stood there, like a clueless phantom, thoughts fighting a useless battle in his mind. Petunia picked herself up from the floor with as much grace as she had fallen with and put her shirt front to back again.

'Well, _you're _certainly chipper in the morning,' she breathed out, looking mockingly at her Father's back and then looked around the room with a disgusted air, seemingly stringing together an insult at how ugly the colours were. Then her eyes fell upon her sister and she remembered why she was there in the first place. Once again, with utmost calm, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

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Read? Review, then!


	8. Part 8

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing except for the plot. (There's a plot?) _

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**Cat and Mouse: The Chase  
**By Ela-chan

_Exactly who's the cat, and who's the mouse?_

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**Chapter Eight**

_The Household and its Masters_

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'Yeah, she's not bad-looking.'

'Sort of pretty, really.'

'In a too-animalistic, voice-too-deep-to-be-legal kind of way.'

Petunia thudded down the stairs with the grace of a giraffe, causing the illegally lounging launderers to quickly smash out their stubs of cigarettes under their bare feet. As the little mistress collected herself off the floor in the most dignified of ways (as in the-most-quiet-so-no-one-would-notice way), the young men hitched the baskets on their hips higher, pretending to count how many stained things were in their respective piles, all the while trying not to scream from the burning sensation on the pads of their feet.

'Good morning, Miss Petunia,' they greeted suavely when Petunia sauntered past, head held ludicrously high. They wisely ignored the limp she now carried. The stubs had scorched their way through their first layer of skin. Teeth bit down on lips.

'You look radiant today, Miss!' Meev almost gasped out, swallowing mountains of slow, eating pain. He closed his eyes in an attempt to avert the picture of the young girl's caked drool and electrified hair.

'Simply fetching!' complied his companion, cutting a clean line through his bottom lip. As the pain registered, Josh, the now-injured, let loose a howl he could not help. It was a hybrid sound of sorts, like a pained seal mating. Both men held their breaths, hoping to whatever higher power listening to force Petunia out of the corridor. Fast.

The girl halted, her stillness shooting shards of annoyance through the Evans employees. Meev and Josh closed their eyes and half-attempted to swallow their lips by sucking them in as fast as they went. The result proved fascinating. Petunia turned slowly and walked (or waddled) toward them, suspicion evident in every step (stumble) she took. Her form stilled a metre away from the squirming men. They visibly cowered under her level gaze.

Petunia took in their curiously arched feet, the way an odd red hue glowed from beneath, their foaming bloody mouths, their narrowed eyes (either from pain or the willingness to possess telepathy to will Petunia away) and the way they practically supported each other upright. Petunia squinted. Meev whimpered. Josh croaked. It was the end for them.

'You're not allowed to use the word 'fetching',' she said carefully, eyeing them with a meaningful air. For a moment, she stayed that way, as though figuring out if either two were women for doing the laundry, or if they would catch another disability the way things were going. When neither proved productive or useful to her, she harrumphed and stalked away (or galloped with grace).

Meev and Josh watched her go, in case she turned back. Their eyes followed her every step, no emotion showing when Petunia stilled at the end of the corridor, threw up her arms and howled something about her sister the rest of the way to the kitchens.

Meev and Josh leapt off their stubs, hurled the basket full of clothes over their heads and collapsed on their bottoms, blowing and spitting on their soles. It was a sorry sight, but smoking wasn't allowed in the Evans Household.

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'I want that sodding cake _white_, damn it, you _plebeian_ little idiot! Not _brown_, not _grey,_ not bloody _pink_ – **white!** **_White!_** The colour all our shirts were before that scary witch decided to not give us any more bloody _uniforms!_'

He strangled the frightened assistant, moustache all a-quiver and mouth foaming at the edges. Kao, the Evans personal cake-maker, was not happy. Not happy, at all. In fact, he was so not happy that he felt like murdering many little helpless things, namely little helpless icing-boy. All of his three chins wobbled in acquiesce.

'Little boy, you do not _appreciate_ the beauty that is cake-making!'

Kao snatched the wooden spoon from the boy's tight clutches and made a great show of preparing one's stance while delicately mixing a large bowl of cake batter. It wasn't exactly pretty.

'Now,' he said tightly, waggling his infinite number of derrieres as far as they would go. 'You stand like _this_ –' he stomped his feet, almost squashing his tiny companion's and cracking the roof in two '– and you mix like _this_.' With those words, he sank the wooden spoon into almost shin-deep batter and whisked it at the speed of light. Avalanches of flesh wriggled on his arms. Splodges of white (or grey) ricocheted on the walls, on their faces, on the benches, on the cat and on the ceiling fan above. Kao didn't seem to notice. He manically looped and looped and looped the mixture until it was as frothy as used toothpaste.

'And that is how you mix,' he wheezed, taking out the spoon and brandishing it in his assistant's face. More white flew happily around and Kao collapsed on the floor, energy-drained. The wide-eyed assistant shakily watched him for a minute before bolting out of the cake section of the kitchens.

All that was to be heard was the steady sizzle spark pop of the stoves until mysterious voices spoke up in dark, dark melancholic shadows. (Or the bright benches a little way away adjacent.)

'He really has to stop doing that to first-timers,' observed a woman kneading dough.

'And what, clean out all the fun we have doing _this?_' replied her fellow kneader, slamming flour onto the bench, spraying their faces as white as Kao's chin.

'On second thought, let the man foam _all_ he wants!'

They cackled for a long period of time, hacking coughs into the dough as they finished.

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'Scissors, paper, rock – scissors, paper, rock – scissors; oh, for Pete's sake, you worthless piece of cross-dressing –'

'I won it fair and square. Now, wipe my part of the floor like a good little big loser.'

'Oh, _sod off_, you prostitute-like – Good _morning_, ma'am!'

Both abandoned their games and stood, backs like planks, as Petunia whizzed by. Their salutations went unnoticed, however, as it seemed their little mistress had more entertaining thoughts within her mind. She shuffled past the young corridor cleaners, eyes not even drawn them the least bit.

'Well, hello, I love you, too,' drawled the younger cleaner contemptuously, pulling a face. She ground her mop into the floor with sulky childishness as her companion roared with laughter.

'Here, _here!_ Come _on!_ Are you _blind_, woman?'

'I'd get it in if you _just held it still_.'

'I _am_ – it's just your fat eyelids _wobbling_.'

'Come here and say that you – _Hello, Miss Petunia!_'

Elliotte hurled the washing cloth she was about to aim in the suds bucket over her shoulder. The cat yowled and Elliotte and her companion pasted on their best smiles.

'Why, Miss Petunia, where is Miss Lilliane J.? She is usually up before you, err, begging your pardon for saying, Miss.'

Petunia halted completely and swivelled to face Jane, Elliotte's friend. The younger girl's eyes were narrowed, a confused and almost-offended nature in them. Jane and Elliotte bit down the urge to slap her face. Before they would induce their violent nature, however, Petunia's eyes widened and she fled out of the corridor, continuing her high-speed chase for her mother. She was howling again.

Jane and Elliotte stared, blinking slowly.

'Err, okay.'

'I told you she was retarded.'

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'Dear? Dear, open the door. It's me.'

No answer.

'Elspeth. Elspeth, open the door.' (He called her Elspeth because it was the name Lillian. J had said when she was six and demanding an dog. It had stuck.)

Thrice knocked, again ignored.

'Elspe –'

'It's open.'

He swallowed his embarrassment and went inside. The click of the door closing sounded much louder than it usually did, jarring his ears somewhat. The room was dark. The candles were lit, one by the table beside the door, and two beside the silhouette of Elizabeth Evans.

'Elspeth,' he said to himself, shaking his head. It was so typical.

'I don't want to go up there right now. I just want to make that clear before you say anything. I'm not going up there. I'm not.'

'We might not need Petunia either if you're going to go about acting like that, love.'

He stood behind her, their reflections an eerie depiction of the world. His hands went instantly to her hair, fingers slipping through the locks easily, like a needle through unwoven silk.

Elizabeth did not appreciate the jest. She moved away from the dresser, crossing her arms. Her eyes were half-lidded and clouded. Her movements were restrained with a force invisible. A force like pushed-away guilt.

'Don't be so emotional, Elizabeth,' crooned Patrick, idly playing with a candle's flame. It danced around his finger, he observed, like his wife was dancing around the past, avoiding it, perhaps. 'If we keep our cool through this, Lillian J. will be fine.' He cursed as the flame bit into his skin. It quivered and died. He picked up the candle, the wax like melting webs. Thoughtfulness seeped through his lowered lashes as he looked at his plaything. 'Just … don't exaggerate things, Elspeth, love.'

'It doesn't need exaggerating, Patrick.' It was a breathy hiss. Tightly closed eyes now. 'You talk like it's just an everyday thing. She looks like him too much. She looks so much, just _too much_ like him, Patrick.'

He smiled sadly and set down the candle. It looked withered beside its illuminated counter. His shoulder sagged somewhat.

'See? You're too emotional.'

'Wouldn't you be if she was your daughter?'

It was a deadpanned statement, but its edges were surprisingly sharp. It bit at Patrick hotter than he thought. Emotion leaked through his eyes. Annoyance twitched on his finger.

'She is my daughter.'

Elizabeth stood still, arms crossed, eyes shut and memory raging. White exploded beneath her lids and black spotted about when she opened them. Without another word, she turned and walked to her husband.

'Of course she is.'

They embraced emptily. It was more than they could give, and the contact was far too cold to be called emotion anymore.

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Read? Review, then! 

lacy -- the 'what happened?' will be explained. XD


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